After the Order
by shakespeareaddict
Summary: Series of oneshots, including A Night Out Dancing, involving various OC and cannon clones dealing with the aftermath of Order 66. Chapter 7: Every great story has a beginning.
1. A Night Out Dancing

The floor of the club _thumped_ in time with the bass chords, sending vibrations through the soles of his sore feet. The former clone trooper-turned-stormtrooper-turned Rebel leaned against the bar, relishing the pulse of the music. His heart kept time with every drum beat as he drank in every chord, every harmony and melody the band sang out. Music was his passion, but tonight he did not give in to the song—not yet. He had just finished a third beer, and he didn't want to dance while he was drunk, however mild his intoxication. That was the whole purpose of only bringing enough credits for three drinks, so he wouldn't have more than three, and he wouldn't make a fool of himself on the floor. That would suck a lot, and truth be told his life had been sucky enough already.

A tap on his shoulder startled him from his reverie. His brother Vertigo mouthed, _You done for tonight?_ He nodded in response, and the other clone responded, _Good, 'cause I need a seat_. Grinning, he gave up his bar stool and scanned the rest of the club for other members of the unit. The band playing was actually composed entirely of boys from the unit—the lead singer was none other than Captain Zyihn—and just about everyone had come to hear them and provide support, or rather, pretend to provide support while they guzzled real drinks instead of stuff with "fake" alcohol and socialized with people whose faces were entirely unfamiliar. The concept of wanting real drinks was foreign to this clone because he had never been a big drinker, and the idea of needing to talk to people who didn't resemble someone you already knew was a bit out there for him as well, as it was for all brothers. He really was there for the band, and more importantly, the music and the dancing that came with bands.

As he scanned the bar, his eyes fell upon a woman standing not far away. She was a human, dark-skinned, with long black hair that hung to her waist even though it was pulled up into a high ponytail. Her body was not at all "curvy", and she was noticeably small in areas where most men preferred bigness, yet instead she was lanky, with a wiry toughness evident even from this distance. There was a very prominent lack of men flocking around her and offering drinks, which was surprising since most of the patrons were males of varying ages and species, and most of the female patrons had at least one man hanging around.

He tapped his brother's shoulder and pointed out the woman. "Dark-skinned beauty, two-oh-clock, well within range of even your puny handguns," he half-whispered. If he had been speaking to anyone else, they wouldn't have understood him over the noise, but Vertigo was a brother.

Vertigo managed to search for her without turning his head, a trick most clones from the old days had mastered long ago. "You mean the shorty with Mr. Muscle-Man hanging off her, right, Tip-Tap?"

"What? No! The tall, thin one with the long hair."

"Her?" he asked incredulously. "Tip-Tap, I'm no expert on the opposite sex, but she's not that great. She's not ugly, but I wouldn't call her a beauty."

"What would you call her, then?" asked Tip-Tap, bemused.

"I don't know, average, I guess. Maybe kinda pretty. But not really. I'd go after the shorty myself if it weren't for the Meathead on her arm; she's better-looking than your pick. But hey, if you like her, you should go talk to her."

"Really?" Tip-Tap had absolutely no experience with women. Back before The Order (he stubbornly refused to think of it any other way, for fear of incurring bad memories), there was General Swiftwater and Lieutenant Bluebird, but they were sisters, not lovers. Besides, the general was gone after The Order, and what little experience he had with the women in the current unit was rarely flirtatious. Or maybe it was flirtatious and he was too naïve to realize it; even so, he didn't know, and he wasn't sure he could talk to anyone of the opposite gender like that on purpose without making a fool of himself.

"Yeah, why not? It's not like you have any competition, anyway."

"What do I say?"

Vertigo shrugged, taking a sip of his newly arrived drink. "I dunno. But women always find soldiers real attractive, when they're not clones. You can tell her you're one of the Rebels who helped get rid of the Imps out here, go on about all the whiteheads and officers you were able to pick off or some sniper thing like that. But you'll be alright, half the single girls in the unit think you're cute, and they all know you're a brother and there are a dozen men in the unit alone with our face, not to mention other deserters who aren't part of the Alliance. Imagine what she'll think, when she doesn't know about your 'extended family'."

Tip-Tap smiled, gaining some small measure of confidence. "I think I will talk to her. Thanks, Vertigo." And he headed off in her direction.

"Hey," he said as casually as he could when he reached her.

She turned, giving him the visual once-over with stunning dark brown eyes. Whatever she saw, she seemed to like, because she smiled at him and responded, "Hey yourself." Her voice was like the music around them—melodic, deep, and many-layered.

"I'm Tip-Tap," he introduced, suddenly feeling self-conscious of his given name. It wasn't a real name at all; why couldn't he have a normal name, like Captain Zach did, or something that could pass for a real name, like Yeller or Cirid? Even Alf and Grav had better names than his when it came to dealing with civvies.

"Tip-Tap," she responded slowly. He couldn't tell if her smile was amused, teasing, or mocking. "Where did you get that name?"

"It's…a long story," he explained lamely.

"Really? What's the story?" she asked, still wearing that enigmatic smile.

"I…."

His back was against the wall, and he felt as bare as if he was in a firefight without even a chest plate. So he did the natural thing—he ran for cover.

Vertigo found him cursing his stupidity in a locked stall in the refresher. "Hey, Tip-Tap, you okay?"

Tip-Tap ignored him and went through the list of Mando swears he knew, modifying each so it could fit in with his rant. He wished he had spent more time with Cap back in the day, for the pilot was like a protocol droid—fluent in over 6 billion forms of communication. A week would pass where he spoke entirely in foreign swears and insults which not even their multi-lingual communications officer Blake understood.

Vertigo tried again. "Come on, Tip-Tap, what happened?"

"I talked to her, that's what!"

"And…."

"Jurkadir!" he shouted, using the Mando term for "Go away!"

"Tip-Tap, really? Please, I'm just trying to help. Will you tell me what happened?"

He sighed. Vertigo was renowned for two things: his lack of any vague inkling to a fear of heights (and subsequent habit of scaling the side of whatever building or cliff was most convenient, usually without climbing equipment), and his stubborn refusal to go away from a brother in need, no matter what insults or objects were thrown in his direction. Tip-Tap was not going to be left alone until he told Vertigo what had happened.

"I told her my name. She asked where I got it. I panicked and ran."

"That's it?" his companion asked, incredulous. "And you ran? You could've told her it was your code name or something. Heck, it practically _is_ your code name, so it wouldn't have been lying, not really. You didn't have to run."

"Yeah, well, I'd like to see you try to explain why your name is Vertigo to some pretty girl. What would you tell her, huh?"

"That I give all my partners vertigo, and that my real name is Vince or something like that," he deadpanned.

Tip-Tap froze. "What? That's a load of ossik! You've never been with a girl, di'kut."

Vertigo chuckled. "Naw, I'm kidding. About the partner thing, that is. But I'm serious about saying my name is Vince. I'd do it, probably. If I wasn't scared," he admitted.

"And if you were?" challenged his brother, still in the stall.

"I would…probably run like you, I guess." He added quickly, "But that doesn't mean I wouldn't try again when I got over myself."

Tip-Tap laughed grimly. "I think it's a bit late for that."

"Don't be so sure." Tip-Tap couldn't see his friend, but he could imagine the stern look on his face. "You know what I said about half the single girls in the unit thinking you're cute? It's not 'cause they think your scars are dashing or you've got bigger muscles or anything like that. The only woman I know who even notices that stuff is Bluebird, but she's our sister. When they see you, they know two things: that you can dance better than you can shoot, even though you're a sniper, and that you say some real funny stuff.

"So here's what I think—get your shebs on that dance floor and show off your moves. Then, when she sees what a great dancer you are, invite her to dance, buy her a drink, and just talk. Don't try being funny, cause no offence, you suck when you try. But otherwise you're great. So just talk to the girl. I'll even give you some money so you can buy her something. Quit protesting, if it's such a problem you can pay me back tomorrow. Now go out there, I'm gonna talk to Captain Zyihn and get the band to play something really good so you can show off your best stuff. Good luck, Tip-Tap—not that you need it."

And just like that, Vertigo left. After a few moments, Tip-Tap picked up the credits he had put on the floor, unlocked the stall, and followed suit.

The band was taking a break at the moment, while an unseen DJ played some popular songs over the amps. Tip-Tap felt the beat of a rap tune he had never heard and didn't particularly like. Some rap was alright, and they were fun to dance to, even though they had some elements that made him a bit uncomfortable, but rap about killing anyone—regardless of who—always depressed Tip-Tap. He didn't think death should be talked about so casually, like it meant nothing. He had seen enough of it to know it was very real, and very serious.

The song ended, and the band practically jumped back on stage. While the guitarist and bass picked up their instruments and the keyboardist powered his own up, Captain Zyihn stepped up to the mic to say a few words.

"This next number is an oldie, kinda like our General," he joked, and waited for the laughter to die down. "No, she's not that old, she's somewhere in her forties, but this song is very old, older than good old Emperor Palpie, if you can believe it." The crowd took longer to quit laughing at that. "But seriously now, this song goes out to one of my men who loves to dance. And if you saw him dance, you'd understand why he loves it so much. I've actually had to tell him to stop before—'Hey, Tommy, I know you love to dance, but could you stop now? You're distracting all the girls in the unit.' I'm serious, I really am. We'll be in the rec room or something, and somebody will turn on some music, and Tommy'll just start dancing. I look away for ten seconds and there's a crowd of women around him. I practically have to swim to get to him. If I weren't a captain, I'd never get there at all. I'd have to blow my way through a wall. He loves dancing so much his code name is Tip-Tap. So, this one goes out to Tommy, it's called 'Elevation' and it's one of his favorites. Here goes."

The song started with a single guitar line, joined occasionally by a ringing note of the keyboard's synthesizer. Tip-Tap started with a few mild separations, saving his energy for later. Then the whole band exploded in sound; at the same time, he followed suit with a wild spin and a small jump. People began looking at him, making room for him, watching as he let himself go into the music. By the time they reached the first chorus, there were quite a few cheers from the continually growing crowd, but he didn't notice. He threw everything he knew into the dance: slides and spins, the droid, tap dancing, a few lines of the moonwalk, pops and locks and drops, a little foxtrot, and even a couple "racier" moves, but he never did anything particularly dirty.

He finished with a sample of break dancing and roaring applause. He smiled wider than he would've thought humanly possible, basking in the adulation and joy he always felt after dancing. It took him a moment to notice the girl from before heading his way.

"Hello again," he said, feeling a mile high. "Sorry about running off earlier—I get nervous…."

"Nervous 'bout what?"

"I dunno. Just get nervous sometimes around pretty girls." It slipped out of its own accord, but he didn't have time to be embarrassed because she laughed, as clear a sound as bells.

"Thanks, I really needed that. And don't worry about it, you didn't weird me out or anything. I'm Nevaeh, by the way."

"It's very nice to meet you. Can I get you a drink?"

They spent the rest of the night together. Tip-Tap did brag a bit about his kills, but mostly their talk was about other things like funny stories of the unit and time before Imperial occupation and not-so-funny tales of battle and the actual occupation. She said she didn't know how to dance, so he insisted on showing her that anyone could; he admitted to a love of stargazing, a love which he had not recently pursued because of time constraints and light pollution in the city, and she took him to a garden on the outskirts of town where they could see the wheeling constellations in their own eternal, distant dances. After a long time of looking and talking about things that mattered and things that didn't, Tip-Tap dared to ask a question which had been gnawing at his mind.

"Can I kiss you?" It came out quietly, and if not for the absence of all but the slightest breeze Nevaeh might have missed it.

She turned to him slowly. "Why do you ask?"

"I just thought, we were having a great time, and it's really beautiful out here and kinda romantic even though I wouldn't know anything about romance at all, and I figured…."

"No, I mean, why didn't you just go ahead and kiss me?"

He shrugged, embarrassed. "Because of my…unique upbringing…I don't have much experience with women. Not like this. So I didn't know if it would be alright, and I didn't want to make a total—"

She leaned over and kissed him, softly, yet without apology. When she pulled away she smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck. "Tommy, don't ask. You don't have to ask. Please, don't ever ask. Just kiss me. It's alright by me. In fact, it's perfect."

Later that night, he returned to the ship with a wide smile, a contact number for one Nevaeh Baxter, and the pressure of her mouth still fresh on his own lips. And for the first time in a long time, when he went to sleep, he had no nightmares or bad dreams. Not even one.

* * *

Tip-Tap is an OC. I was listening to U2's Elevation once and had a fantasy of him dancing in a random bar. enjoy.


	2. Flying Away

It's baaack!

I don't own Star Wars, but I would like to take ownership of all my OCs.

This chapter is darker-I don't suggest it for those of you who don't like the idea of torture...

* * *

In the small, dark room made for one, Terra paced back and forth. For the first time in his driven, organized, genetically shortened life, he was completely and utterly alone. There were no brothers with him or nearby, no commanders looking out for him from afar, no Kaminoans stalking him on monitors and judging and psychoanalyzing his every action. But most of all, there was no Kellianna in the room, perhaps sitting on the bed, shaking her head and telling him not to worry, silly, things would be better in the morning, no need to pace all night.

She might never sit on his bed again….

He shut down that line of thought as quickly as he could. No, she_ had_ to be alive, he _had_ to see her again. She was _his_, dammit, and no one would dare kill her. No one would dare touch her, not even to—

He stopped pacing to stop thinking before he started crying again. It would do him no good to dwell on her at all, not until he had news. Terra had known it was suicide to stay on this godforsaken planet after their discovery, even if she might still be alive, but his heart had refused to believe this or to accept that, yes, there was probably nothing he could do, regardless, and so he had called the only person he knew for certain he could trust while he fled from their old house.

If Rys had been upset to get his call, it went unnoticed. Rys was a vod, as close as a hatchmate, and understood his panic, his fear, even though Terra did his best to hide it. Rys had listened to the story before instructing calmly, "Get a hotel room, low-key, slums of some city, where the owner won't ask questions. I've got a few friends with brothers on the inside that might be stationed there. We'll find Kellianna, I swear, Ter'ika. Get some rest if you can. I'll contact you when I get intel."

He wasn't exactly sure how long a wait it was, an hour, a day, weeks, months. It might as well have been; he stayed awake, pacing like a caged gundark, never unlocking the door for refreshers, food, air, anything. If the manager noticed his silence, he didn't say anything, which made him wonder, briefly, what happened if a crime was committed in one of these dismal rooms. No doubt it wouldn't matter until the smell of blood and rotting flesh began disturbing other guests, who, judging by the squatters outside, probably wouldn't mind for a week or so. People on this end of town didn't get very picky regarding neighbors, unless of course they were higher-end who had fallen from grace, in which case they were soon found dead.

A comforting thought crossed his mind. Those Imperial officers who displeased their "glorious Emperor" and ended up in a place like this would not last long. If he hadn't been so tense, if things hadn't been so uncertain, if he had known for sure that she would be okay without his help, he might have gone out to search for some and speed up their demise. He was in a very anti-Imperial mood, more than usual, understandably, and he felt the need to go out and act upon this mood, but it would still be suicide, and if there was anything he could do for her, he would not risk the chance that he might be hurt and not be able to help his Kelli. If it is too late, muttered a part of himself which he wasn't very aware of, it wouldn't matter then. I could go out then. I'll make them pay then.

His comlink went off, buzzing once.

It was only halfway through that first buzz when Terra flicked it open, daring a hopeful, "Hello?"

"Terra, thank god, it's been dar'yaim trying to get this through. I got a last-minute job, I was caught up with pirates a few systems away, all that ossik—good thing you tried my long-range number. Listen, I got word from a friend whose captain is still inside, he's stationed at the Imp's base where you are. According to this vod, he's got eyes in the back of his head, he won't let anything happen to her, I swear, but he hasn't been contacted yet. I do have his private number, so you can call and make arrangements."

His face fell. No real news. Things were little better than they were before. There was still nothing he could do.

Something else nagged at the back of his mind, nearly masked by his sudden despair.

"Wait, why hasn't your vod called this captain?"

"Things are…complicated between them. They'd had a lot of arguments after the Order. They're on better terms now, but…it's for the best if they don't have any direct communication. Not just on business, that is."

Terra didn't pry, not wanting to stall getting that number—and information.

But it took him a moment to dial the contact. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear what he'd soon know, but not knowing hurt more. Not knowing allowed him to imagine worse and worse scenarios.

The brother who answered was one of the originals, a Jango Fett clone. It didn't come as a surprise, really, since none of the newest lapdogs showed the slightest interest in life beyond mindless servitude. His voice was tired as he picked up, reminding Terra of the late hour, but the exhaustion was disguised as well as it could be out of politeness. "Captain Zach here."

"Sir."

"Please don't call me 'sir'. It's bad enough my old boys still call me that. They, at least have earned the right to call me by my name; you, no doubt, have earned that right, too, otherwise you wouldn't have gotten my number. And I don't deserve the rank anymore in the first place. Just Zach is fine by me. What's your name?" The voice was kind, despite being weary, and Terra felt a bit more at ease. Surely, this man would help. Surely, his Kelli would be alright.

"Terra, s—Zach."

"Hello, Terra. What seems to be your problem? Are you not out yet, and need some help? Need a new ID, someone to clear the records of your existence, protection?"

"I need information."

He could almost see the brother perking up at the news. "What kind of information?"

"My girlfriend…."

His throat suddenly closed up. He couldn't even move his mouth to form words, not that he knew what to say beyond that one phrase. The reality of the past few days came over him again, and he was lost.

"Wait a sec—you're on this planet, right? What am I saying, you've gotta be, this isn't a cross-system number. Listen, we had a woman come in today….Where's that file? Kriff this mess…wait….Okay, here it is. Name of Kellianna Zigorski, suspected of treason, conspiring, housing, and associating with an enemy and traitor to the Emperor—that's their inane way of saying she knew a brother. Is that her?"

He somehow managed to squeak out a "yes". She was alive.

"Oh, fierfek….You say Cart's boys are off-duty _now_?" Someone not on the line murmured an answer. "Fiefekark it….Listen, Terra, I've gotta go now. Don't worry, I know exactly where she is, she'll be fine, just give me one hour to deal with this and give me another ring."

The line went dead. Terra considered following its example.

The last thing Zach said scared him more than any amount of imagination alone could. Whatever made him run off like that had to do with Kellianna, no doubt, and if it was really such a problem, it could only be bad news. His mind ran wild with the possibilities, tormenting him, mocking him. He couldn't move from his position for a long time; when he finally did, he only redialed the number and waited.

The answer came almost immediately. "Terra, that you?"

"Yes. Zach, what—what happened to Kelli?" His voice shook terribly.

"Don't worry, she'll be fine."

"She'll_ be_ fine? I heard you talking earlier. Who's Cart, and what did his boys…." He held back a sob. I must be strong for her, he thought. I must be strong.

"Terra, did you desert right after Order 66? No? Do you remember the _unique_ interpretations there were of Order 37? Because, I'm sorry about this, but Cart…he thinks it's okay to keep up those kinds of interpretations. It's my own fault, I should've been more vigilant, I'm sorry, I did the best I could. She's in the medbay now—under guard, of course, but he's one of my old boys. He wouldn't dare, and I've got the finest, chaste-est, most anti-Imp medic in the whole galaxy checking up on her. They'll take care of her until we can get her to you."

He fell silent while Terra processed all of this. So his fears were true, terribly true. That this had happened under the eyes of someone whom Rys had placed utmost faith in was inconceivable, unforgiveable.

But she was alive. Thank god, she was alive, and he'd be damned if anyone ever hurt her again.

And maybe Zach had saved her. He had known what some men did during Order 37. It was part of the reason he'd left, after all, and they rarely left the women alive afterwards.

Now good men were taking care of her—and if he understood correctly, they wouldn't hurt her, like good men should.

He took a deep breath. Things could be so, so much worse, as terrible as they were.

"Okay. How do I get her back?"

"Don't worry about that, vod. I'm going to send in a request to 'deal with the prisoner myself' to my superiors. We're going to say we'll take her out to make it worse for her or some sort of poodoo like that. So we take her out to a location of your choosing, maybe tomorrow night, you pick her up, we hang out there for around an hour or so, so that they'll think from our transponders that we're really…you know. When we get back, we say we went too far, file some paperwork while the two of you jet off planet. You've got a ship of your own, right?"

"Of course."

"Good. Public transport would at least have our face in the databank, maybe hers, too. No one will question this way." He paused for breath before asking, slower and more somber, "Hey, Terra, you've had the inoculation, right?"

The inoculation—slang term for the "cure" for clones' rapid aging. Of course he'd had it, he responded, Rys had given it. Who was Rys? A vod from the old days, not hatchmate, but a squad mate, and close, very close, not to mention protective of brothers. Truest friend he could've asked for, and yes, that's where Terra had gotten Zach's number, how did he know?

"My lieutenant was friends with a Rys," Zach had answered. Terra hadn't probed further, realizing this lieutenant was no doubt the friend his squad mate had mentioned and recognizing the hurt in his tone. Whatever differences they had, they needed to get over it on their own time, and talking about it to strangers might not help.

* * *

Terra was waiting impatiently for Zach on the outskirts of town. It was part of the arrangement—it made sense for prisoner torture (for that was what Zach and his "old boys" were faking, as frightening as it was) to take place away from prying civilian eyes, and a privately owned ship lifting off would be less noticed the further it was from those same eyes.

It was agreed that Zach would park with all the speeder's lights on, and that he and his men would make sure to set down their weapons where he could see them, for as desperate as he was to have his Kelli back and away from anyone who might hurt her, he was not stupid enough to assume that he could completely trust the captain. Mostly he did trust him, though training as an intelligence and black ops trooper had pounded out of him the ability to completely trust anyone other than the brothers by his side. Zach had not earned that title yet.

Eventually he heard the distant purr of a speeder engine. After a moment, they came up with the front windows rolled down and pulled to a stop at the appointed place. Terra checked his chrono; they were early, but he'd been staking out the spot for so long that it seemed they were almost late. He could hear them speak as they came out in a clutter of armor and the metallic slamming of doors.

"I still don't believe they bought it. Like you'd really smash in faces for the 'glorious Empire', after all the crap they've put you through. And a woman, too—come on, you'd think that saving her from Cart's band of sheb-heads would've tipped them off, but no, they still think you'd kill her. All in the interests of our 'magnanimous' and 'just' leader."

"Well, in case you haven't noticed, Tip-Tap, the officers aren't exactly geniuses these days."

"I know that, Patch, but isn't it common sense? You don't believe in treating a woman roughly, I don't, you don't, Captain, none of us do, unless she puts up her fist first, we learned_ that_ lesson the hard way. Remember right after that whole mess on Hevoi, we got our new ship with that sweet rec room, and Lieutenant Bluebird challenged you to a fistfight, Captain?"

When the captain responded, his voice was tight, controlled. "Yeah. She did a good job of pounding me into that mat. Take off that rifle, Tip-Tap, Terra's gonna be here soon. We don't want him to get upset or anything."

Tip-Tap complained about it, confirming Terra's suspicions—he was definitely a sniper, no one else would whine so much about putting down a gun for a few minutes or even be carrying a rifle like that for an assignment like this. He pulled out a pair of macrobinoculars and studied the one who had been driving the speeder. He was in fatigues without a jacket, but he carried himself like a captain did, and the third man was carrying a medkit, so he concluded the driver was Zach. Yes, he even had a few stray gray hairs, though if he'd had the inoculation himself he shouldn't. But stress did age people.

"So, Patch, how was she during the ride?" asked the captain.

"Fine. I put her under when we got past security. Poor girl, she's been through a lot, but she should be better when she's back with her boyfriend. I've done everything I can for her physical pain, she'll be fine with bed rest, but emotionally….Sometimes I wish I was a shrink, too."

Zach put an arm around the medic (it didn't take a genius to figure out what he was) and reassured him. "You did the best you could. It's not your fault that this happened, or that no one bothered to teach you how to deal with it. There's nothing any of us can do, only Terra can help her there."

Terra stood up and made his way to the pool of light. They turned, trooper-fast, at the sound of his footsteps, and Zach gave him a weary smile. "She's in the back, left-hand side."

Terra nodded and only barely managed to keep from running to the door, throwing it open, and embracing Kellianna vigorously. Instead he walked carefully and knelt slowly by the now-open door, and watched her.

He hadn't been certain what to expect, how she would look after what they had done to her; he'd never seen the end results of stormtroopers carrying out orders such as that, had avoided it at all costs. It was for this reason that he was mildly surprised at how peaceful she seemed, for he had assumed that she would sleep the troubled rest of injured brothers. Instead she looked as if she could have been dozing safely at home in the bed they had shared, on the cusp of waking but not ready to leave sleep just yet. At the same time, however, she could not possibly have been there, in that former haven of theirs. Bruises covered her arms. One eye was black, the patch of abused skin shaped like an armored gauntlet to remove his guesswork, and scabby teeth marks ran down her neck to scurry further past her collar to— She hadn't been wearing a collared shirt when they had been flushed out. He strained his eyes and realized it was an Imperial officer's jacket, thrown hastily over her other clothes yet zipped securely all the same. Carefully he undid it, to find her own shirt torn and covered in dried blood. _I can't do this,_ he thought. _I can't see her like this. God, she's so frail, I could shatter her like porcelain._ "Why me," he whispered. "Why her?"

And then he felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. He hadn't even heard the brother come up behind him, he was so distracted. "I'm sorry." Zach sounded as defeated as if it was a personal failure, all his fault. "I'm sorry, vod. I'm so, so sorry."

Terra glanced up, and saw in the captain's eyes the understanding born from experience and pain of his own. For a long moment their gazes met, sharing the pain past and present, and then Kelli stirred and Zach stepped back, giving what little privacy he could.

She opened her eyes, which cast about desperately for a second before locking on his own. "Terra," she croaked, reaching out.

He gave into the urges he'd been fighting and threw his arms around her. They stayed that way for quite some time, and then he heard one of his new brothers cough nervously, reminding him—they had to go. So he picked her up bridal-style and carried her to the ship, only putting her down when he came to her chair in the cockpit. Then they lifted off and flew away, away from the fear and pain, always away, as far as their ship would go. And on the ground, three small shadows watched as they rose and soared into the sky until they were just two more stars, floating freely out there. One by one they turned sadly to leave, each grieving for the past they shared, each longing to one day fly away as well.

It would be a long time before they could.


	3. Landing Somewhere Worth It

It's late, this is short, I admit I could've worked on it longer, but it's May 4th, International Star Wars Day.

This one's another one about stars. Sort of. I got all the Order 66 info from Wookiepedia (which is now on my Favorites Bar so I can browse with ease ;D). I know I promised at least one reader something right after Yavin, and it should theoretically be up next.

May the Fourth be with you all.

* * *

Cut Lawquane leaned against the speeder and stared at the stars. Around one revolved Kamino, the closest he'd had to a home in younger years; another held Coruscant captive, where all the Jedi in the galaxy had lived; a third housed Ryloth, the planet his wife had left for Saleucami. Others might not even be in their galaxy, they could've been so large that their light stretched out across the systems and light-years until they settled in his eyes, eyes the same as any brother's, and some were dead a million of those years ago yet still shining brilliantly, waiting for their image to catch up to their fate. Somewhere in that maze of stars was a brother with his eyes but different scars and a different mind behind them, a brother who once had stood up in his kitchen and declared his loyalty—no, his _purpose_, his reason for existing which was given to him by another yet made his own through the fire of his determination: a dedication to keeping the citizens of the Republic and their children safe from some unimaginable evil lurking on the horizon.

He hadn't spoken of the Jedi on his visit, but Cut had often wondered where they fit in.

_Were they the evil you tried to protect us from, Rex,_ he thought, _or is it another, greater threat you wanted to stop? Is this what you wanted? Did you follow this order, or was it only proof of the evil you fought so hard to destroy? Did you even try to end the madness this time?_

The stars gave him no answer.

Of course, he couldn't know if Rex was even alive at this point in time, and would probably never know, though he also wouldn't think of him as dead. Not now, not ever, he'd once assumed. Except, maybe it would be best for him to be dead now.

Cut was no idiot, he had seen the slanted views on the holonet and put the pieces together. His brothers were now being used as weapons of terror. That was all they were to the Empire, a symbol of the new Emperor's strength, an extension of his will. The word "dictator" had been brought up only a few times during flash training—no extraneous information was supposed to reach the ears of the Republic's "perfect" soldiers—but he knew that that was what the former Chancellor now was.

A cough startled him from these thoughts. Suu had come out and was standing a few meters away, waiting. She had seen the videos, too, the slaughters that his brothers had already been asked to participate in, and it was no more than three months after the night everything changed. Yet she wasn't quite sure what it meant to him, hadn't asked or assumed anything, and so she didn't know what to say, of that he was certain.

He waved her over, but she hung back. "It's getting late out, Cut. You should come inside."

"I'll go in soon enough. Won't you sit by me? Please?" he added upon seeing her expression.

After a moment's hesitation, she walked over and leaned against the speeder with him. The only sound was that of the insects scattered in the night.

"Do you think he was still around?" he asked finally, slowly.

"I'm sorry?"

"…Nothing. Just thinking to myself."

This response made her sigh, and she leaned herself against him, his arm coming up to encircle her. "My, my, Cut. What am I going to do with you? I know you are fearful, but of what? What do you fear so much that you do not let the children out of your sight?"

"Myself." The word was out before he could stop it, and all he could do was sit back and watch the consequences, chief among them Suu's disbelief and protest. "Yes, I'm serious."

"What could you ever do that would endanger our children?"

"Nothing, at least…not on purpose." The question was still in her eyes, so he was forced to continue. "Order 66. It's one of a number of orders that were flash-trained into us. The Contingency Orders for the Grand Army of the Republic: Order Initiation, Orders 1 Through 150, they were called, to be used in emergency situations. Most of them needed to be verified by the Senate or something before we could be given it. But that one was…different. Only the Chancellor could give it, and no one had to second-guess being given any one of these orders, we had to follow it immediately, and there wouldn't be much we could do…." Absentmindedly he recited, " 'In the event of Jedi officers acting against the interests of the Republic, and after receiving specific orders verified as coming directly from the Supreme Commander (Chancellor), GAR commanders will remove those officers by lethal force, and command of the GAR will revert to the Supreme Commander (Chancellor) until a new command structure is established.' "

It took her only a moment to process it. "That's the order they gave…."

"Probably. It's the most convenient one, makes the most sense. What I'm scared of is…if I had been out there when that order was given, could I resist? Or would I just….Would I be strong enough, aware enough, to realize that Order 66 was _wrong_? If someone came along now and gave me an order like that, like…like Order 37, would I even have the chance to realize how wrong it was, or would I follow through before I knew it?"

There was a pseudo-silence for a long time following this. Finally Suu spoke, quietly: "I'm pregnant."

He found it strange that she would bring it up now, of all times, and said so.

"I'm telling you now because there's something you need to realize: You are not the same man whose division was attacked and slaughtered three years ago. You are not the same naïve, eager-to-please trooper I first met. You are a different person now, Cut, and I trust you, all of you, even those parts which have been…_programmed_ to obey without question. And even if it might not seem smart to you or anyone else, even if you think that you are still enough of that man to do something horrific one day, I don't bel—no, I _know_ it's a lie. That's why I tell you this now; so you know that I trust you."

He dropped his gaze from the stars and found that they were reflected in her eyes. Only they weren't, not exactly, because her eyes were too beautiful to do anything short of holding their brilliance, their very essence within. Perhaps Rex wasn't among those cold points of light above, but instead he was swimming in the galaxies contained in the eyes of someone who cared. Someone who saw him as more than what he was, the way Suu saw him. Yes, perhaps he had slipped from the sky somewhere. He hoped he'd landed somewhere worth it.

Cut leaned forward and kissed her, whispering, "Thank you." She seemed to realize he meant it in gratitude for more than just himself.


	4. Fireworks

This is what happens when you write fanfiction at a baseball game with fireworks at the end. Hope it's flufftastic.

* * *

Rex woke to an all-too-familiar sound.

It was not the annoying banging of children in another apartment as they ran around, still awake despite the ungodly hour. It was not the soft whispers of his own children, or the sudden shrieks of wailing babies (which he still found irritating, but far more manageable, if those infants were his own). It was not the clashing of pots in the kitchen, or the subtle clicks of one ship docking with another, or that slight hum of an engine changing pitch.

It was the sound of bombs going off in the distance.

He was up in a nanosecond, drawing out the blaster he kept under his pillow. There was another _boom_, followed by some sort of sizzle—ejecta burning up in the atmo, maybe? Cautiously he made his way to the open balcony off of the three-bedroom "suite" they'd rented for the week in a less-reputable motel downtown. It was serving as their base-of-ops while everyone waited for instructions from the Rebel brass, though there were plenty of other safehouses. There was a tangible agreement that it was best if most of the clones and the few underground Jedi stay away from this particular mission, in case it failed. They were the ones who had built this rebellion, they could build another if need be.

But if there were bombs going off, then it probably_ had_ gone wrong, and someone was trying to fight their way through to them. That was the only explanation he could come up with.

He slipped silently through the door and was dazzled by a dozen flashes of white light above the cityscape. The sound followed seconds later, but there was no shock wave. Ahsoka was at the railing, watching the firefight intensely.

"What are you doing out here?" he hissed. There were bombs going off, and she was just _watching_? Even after all these years, Jedi never ceased to confound him.

She turned, taking in his crouched stance with surprise. "Watching the show, Rex. Haven't you ever seen fireworks?"

They'd both seen plenty of flash-bangs on battlefields, alright; what he didn't understand was why she suddenly found them so intriguing. "You could get hit by shrapnel. Get back inside, _now_."

His wife brushed his mind briefly, not trying to pry or influence him, just taking a deeper reading than she could with the regular Force-powers. In the brilliant green of another explosion, he saw realization dawn on her features. "Didn't anyone tell you where the nickname 'fireworks' even came from?"

"I…"

Words failed him, and she stepped in quickly. "Real fireworks aren't like regular war ordinance. They're…like decorative bombs. For celebration. Meant to be pretty. Stuff like that."

He relaxed a little. Another civilian peculiarity that Kamino hadn't prepared him for. "So, what's being celebrated?"

"I didn't want to wake you, but I got a comm. from Ackbar. The _Death Star II_ is destroyed, Palpatine's dead, the Empire is in shambles. Word's spread to most of the galaxy already. Fives and Echo heard first and decided to neutralize the Imperial base here with the locals' help. They're celebrating with some fireworks."

The Empire was falling apart. That was what got through to him the most. The Empire was falling apart.

"We're free," he whispered, more to himself than her.

"Yes, Rex." She stepped forward and wrapped arms around him. "We're finally free." She hesitated before adding, "And so is Master."

"What?"

"Skywalker commed, too, to tell us. Vader is dead, but at the end…he was his old self again. He died as himself. He's really at peace now."

It was a miracle, there was no other way to describe it. He revealed in the knowledge that his General had finally regained his senses, that he was more than just someone else's tool. It was as joyful as finding that one more brother was out of control of someone else. Suddenly he was full of sheer happiness and exuberance and _lifelust,_ deeper lifelust than he'd ever felt before.

"Well, we clones aren't much for pretty explosions unless we're the ones causing them. We're more for the _physical_ realities." He drew back his head a little. "What do you say to a little celebration of our own?" He picked her up before she could answer, and she shrieked a little out of habit rather than protestations.

Maybe it was just his imagination, but the next series of red rockets seemed to form the shape of a heart.


	5. Recollections of a Sniper

I don't think I'll be getting around to postings for this as often, now that I've got "Hevoi" up, but I hope you guys enjoy this.

Quick background: The plans for the Death Star were collected piece by piece, so I took some liberty with that fact. Also, it's never mentioned who Cut's hatchmates are... And while Zach is mentioned here, I give no guarantee that he'll survive in "Hevoi".

* * *

Sometimes, when things were quiet and there was nothing to do, a rarity since he'd taken a desk job, Zips would remember the days before the Empire. Never as far back as Kamino, though. Kamino gave him nightmares, Clone Wars gave him bittersweet dreams, Empire gave him hopelessness. So when he could, he dwelled on the war, on the other brothers he'd known back then, on his crazy general and the few times he'd seen all five of their sisters in one place. He often wondered if they would ever get back to that feeling of belonging, of being _home_, but he doubted it.

Chip thought of Kamino and the other horrors they'd experienced together far more often than Zips did. Chip had quit speaking, even to superiors, even to him, after eight years of the Empire, but Zips didn't need for him to say a word or wave a hand in a single signal for him to know how often his brother thought of them. They were hatchmates from Kamino; last survivors during Saleucami; partners at their many flimsi-pushing positions afterwards. Zips didn't need to speak to Chip, either, for his brother to understand, but he usually did anyway, just to hear himself talk and reassure himself that he could keep his voice steady.

Zips was guilty for the atrocities they'd committed in the immediate aftermath of 66. He had committed more than Chip, because he was a sniper and his taciturn companion had already been a data manipulator and splicer. Zips felt terribly guilty for his crimes, and sometimes he'd hear the screams and pleas of his victims in his dreams, or see their surprised faces when a blast round blew through their chest, or just before their head came off. He'd done his best to avoid it, but sooner or later a superior officer would send him to do something horrific, especially assassinations, and he never forgave himself afterwards.

Chip seemed to think that he shouldn't beat himself up for it, because there was nothing he could have done, short of leaving, and he wouldn't leave without Chip. Chip wouldn't leave until the last second. His skills with hacking, once used for robolobotomies and stealing enemy intelligence, now was directed towards the "glorious" Emperor and his projects across the galaxy. As other brothers left, they began various campaigns to clandestinely sabotage Imperial missions; Chip preferred to help them from the inside, and sent them information as secretly as he could. He had nothing to be guilty of, and for that Zips was almost jealous.

But he also knew the demons that haunted his brother. His nightmares were no better than Zips'. His stretched back to the brothers they had _left_, as he once insisted on putting it. Zips disagreed. They'd seen Jeb fall out of the transport as it was ripped in two, and everyone who'd still been alive when help had belatedly arrived was saved, therefore Cut and Ross had to be dead. But Chip was still upset or maybe even guilty about it, and some nights he'd climb into Zips' bed for comfort. (This had sparked very cruel, very discriminatory rumors, as it had in the early days of the Clone Wars. The difference was, back then it had happened less often, and Captain Zach was always there to defend any brother who needed it. No one messed with him, thus no one messed with them.

(But Captain Zach had gotten in too deep, and they'd lost contact with him. He could no longer help them.)

Zips stayed away from the other men in their various units and details and attachments. They were not the same as men from the 49th. The newer men seemed to enjoy what they did, or were so caught up in propaganda that they'd do whatever was asked by an officer, while the older men became callous and unfeeling or committed suicide when they couldn't take the madness anymore. It was the only way to deal with this insanity they now called reality, since most didn't seem to think that treason was an option. Then, eventually, came the non-Fett clones, even worse than the newer guys. They were one homogenous mass, but with different faces at the same time, and that alienated Zips. And, he reasoned to himself, the fewer people he got closer to, the less likely he'd let something slip and Chip would be executed, or worse, sent to Sentara.

Sentara was more of an abstract threat than an actual place. Sometimes, when Cap became too much for Captain Zach, he'd groan, "I swear, I'm sending you to Sentara."

Chip had found proof of its existence, on request from a friend. He'd also found some of their real brothers in residence, and that had scared them both, since it was where Captain's trail lead. It was a prison for traitors, like them. Zips didn't want to know what would happen if Chip was sent there. He'd probably hang himself, though it would be more productive if he were to run then and try to find someone to help him save his hatchmate.

He knew it wouldn't take too long in a prison like that for Chip to completely lose it. He'd nearly lost it so many times already. After Saleucami, he'd stayed silent for a solid month, and while eventually he spoke again he was quieter than he had been before. After 66, he'd just gone downhill. It had gotten even worse when Captain Zach had been revealed as a traitor. They had both been part of the inside job that had busted him, and it had nearly given Chip an all-out panic attack. He prayed it wouldn't happen to them, but he wasn't stupid.

Time passed.

Eventually it got to the point where Zips quit trying to pretend he cared about his job. He hated it. Half the stuff he was filing had to do with putting down protests and killing civilians to capture "terrorists". The other half was relating to civil problems, none of which anyone ever bothered solving, except when it was reassignments from Kamino to the field. All dead were sent there, when it was convenient. Blind and deaf were sent there. Brain-dead were sent there. Cripples were sent there. And then each person was reassigned, often to more than one unit. It made him sick, to know that his body would one day be desecrated and sent all over to patch someone else up, without even asking his permission. Some civilians chose to donate organs, but clones never got that or any choice.

He hated his life, too, for the most part. Several times he considered pulling the trigger because he wasn't doing anything useful and only had a practical mute for company and felt so sick all the time. It was after one of these episodes that Chip taught him the basics of data splicing. The practice helped him feel a little better, because while he might never find anything useful he was freeing up his brother to look for the useful stuff with higher security clearances.

But it didn't matter. The Empire was so huge, and the information so vast, that they couldn't have been that much of a help to anyone, no matter what their brothers might have said to the contrary had they been able to. His contemplation of suicide did not disappear, and several times he came so close that he actually raised a pistol to his forehead, before he stopped himself.

He did have a reason to live, though he often denied it. His reason was this: Chip had been hurt and screwed over too many times, and Zips was not going to leave his brother to fend for himself.

His reason for staying was that Chip was sticking around until the bitter end, it seemed, and he wasn't going to drag him away from this work which was the only thing keeping the hacker going. Whatever kept his brother going, no matter how useless, was what he wanted.

And then one day, they struck gold.

They had kept contact with those brothers who had left, so they could pass on information when it came their way. This contact only tormented Zips. It was like a whiff of uj cake—enough to water his mouth, but not enough to sustain him. Every message with a sly reference to their lives made him long for freedom, for companions, for something better than this hellhole. Anything would do, really, but nothing was there.

Sometimes they'd be asking for something specific, and Chip would spend hours plowing through the mainframe to find it. Sometimes he'd get something, more often not. One day there was a comm. about a super-weapon strong enough to destroy a whole planet, and Zips started to wonder if they were just sending crap to keep them busy.

He was wrong. It took Chip three days to find something, but finally he arrived, triumphant, with a datapad containing a copy of the "Death Star's" security systems. Zips was surprised, but he sent it forward himself.

Nearly a month later, the holonet buzzed with news of a secret weapon being destroyed by the Rebels. Chip had looked at one article with obvious pride, and Zips felt something he hadn't felt in a long, long time: satisfaction. They'd done something right, and he'd helped, if only by keeping his friend sane long enough to find the information.

He felt better after that, and didn't so easily dismiss his life any more.


	6. A Study of a Son

*headdesk headdesk headdesk*

Hey everybody...I'm alive! haha...

Yeah. Sorry I've been making everyone wait so long for everything. All I can say is, I'm really hoping that the school year will actually provide me with _more_ time to write instead of sucking up all my free time so I have no life whatsoever...

Anyways. If you've bothered reading the reviews to this story, you'll notice that my friend **sachariah **originally thought "A Night Out Dancing" was taking place after the Battle of Yavin. It wasn't. It was supposed to take place afterwards, on some random planet the Alliance was helping out. But it did inspire this, which has several of the same characters-the band is the same, for example. So, yeah. Enjoy!

* * *

Vertigo was impressed at the amount of people crammed into the now-transformed mess, especially with the makeshift stage where a band—_their _band, really, though he wasn't part of it—banged out chords that were nearly lost in the swell of sounds from the ecstatic, wild crowd. Not that he blamed them, since he himself was guilty of celebrating the rare battle where the casualties were low and rewards high with a good deal of shouting, though he often did so from a very high precipice and without any alcohol in his system.

His brother Tip-Tap was a different story. He was currently celebrating in his favorite way—with a pair of dance shoes. Being an excellent dancer regardless of what type of dancing it was, he also happened to be surrounded by girls trying to get his undivided attention. Like they'd actually get it. When he was in "the groove", not even Vertigo was able to hold his attention for longer than it took to ask if he was enjoying himself.

He watched in a mix of amusement and bewilderment as one of the more determined and smarter of his friend's admirers casually stepped behind the dancer and began dirty dancing, brushing as much of her chest up against his back as possible. Unfortunately for her, the music segued into the chorus, and he had already figured out the moves for the chorus, thus he was going to do them regardless of any outside distractions. And the first step was a jazz square that ended in a slide in the opposite direction of the girl.

She pouted so distinctly that Vertigo could see it from the other side of the room, and he laughed. Why was she even trying that hard to dance with him like that? Better yet, why was she even a part of the military side of the Rebellion? His own sister (he had several sisters, but one was far closer than the others) would never have done something like that, even if everyone was celebrating. She always had this air of bravado, of sorts, around her, whether they were off-duty or on, and 95% of the time it was easy enough to forget that she was a girl.

Oh, well. Females never ceased to surprise or completely confuse him.

He was making his way to the hastily constructed bar when he saw _them_, practically the guests of honor, sitting at one of the few still-standing tables, in the corner of the room, laughing and chatting with one another. As he watched an awestruck Rebel sort of stumbled over to them, stuttering some sort of thanks from what Vertigo could read off his lips. Interested, the clone observed their reactions.

Solo was smiling cockily, responding with ease as if he'd been the receiver of many praises throughout the night, when he was reproached by the Wookie. The two descended into what was likely very humorous banter, which he only paid attention to for a few minutes.

The real man of the hour was blushing as the other Rebel continued to praise him. Evidently he wasn't used to this much attention, because he kept on trying to dismiss any sort of thanks with an embarrassed wave of his hand, but with no success. Poor kid. He'd lost his aunt and uncle only a few days ago, gained a new mentor, then lost _him_ as well, before being thrust into the spotlight for doing something that was half luck, anyways.

Suddenly Vertigo was approaching them, looking closer at the boy. He'd only seen Skywalker the elder on a few occasions, but the resemblance was obvious. Same strong features, same nose, same sloping shoulders. The biggest difference was his lighter hair, and even then he recalled General Swiftwater saying something to Skywalker about his locks darkening since he'd grown up. But there was none of the cockiness, none of the arrogance, no mad gleam in his eyes—though the flashing lights (and how had they managed to arrange that, anyway?) did give everyone's eyes an interesting chiaroscuro effect.

And then he was standing behind the still-stuttering, star-struck soldier. He tried not to laugh at this man's expense, but it was hard to contain the chuckles.

"Excuse me, sir, are you alright?" he asked said admirer of the farm boy. He already had a plan for getting the young Skywalker more alone, for what, he didn't know.

The man jumped and stuttered even more. "Oh, Force, you startled me! N-no, I'm f-f-fine, really—"

"You look kinda pale. Are you sure?"

"W-well, I guess so…."

"Here, take this." He picked up a mostly full, abandoned glass from an adjacent table and pushed it on the man. "You look like you could use it. Sorry for scaring you, man. Maybe you should just sit down for a few minutes, I think there's a couple chairs over there."

"No, it's fine, I just—"

"Naw, I've been doing this whole fighting business longer than you'd like to know, trust me. You need to sit down for just a few minutes and you'll be fine in no time."

"I really think I don't need this."

"Oh, no, I've seen guys say they're fine, they're making faces like you but they say they're fine, and then all of a sudden they're puking their guts out or fainting or having a seizure or something. I really think you need to just rest."

"Oh—well, thanks, I guess…."

He turned to Skywalker, who looked considerably more comfortable now. "What was that all about?" he asked, sounding terribly naïve, too.

Vertigo hopped onto the table. "It was about getting to talk to you alone. I noticed you didn't seem too comfy with the guy, so I got you out of that, too, cause I don't like to do something just for myself. I'm Vincent Heights, by the way."

The younger man shook his hand tentatively. "I'm Luke Skywalker. Why do you want to talk to me?"

"Well, other than the fact that you're responsible for saving all our lives just a couple hours ago? You remind me of your dad."

He hadn't known what he was going to say until he said it. Now Skywalker the younger was looking at him in either wonder or surprise, it was hard to tell in the weird lighting. (Why did everyone seem to like this kind of lighting for parties, anyway?) "You knew my father?"

He shrugged. "I didn't exactly _know_ him, we were never even properly introduced, but I saw him once or twice, yeah."

"Really? When?"

There was nothing for it but the truth. "I was in the Clone Wars, he was in the Clone Wars…the 501st and 49th ran into each other a lot."

"What?"

"You've never heard of the 501st Regiment? Force, it's _famous_. The most effective unit in the whole GAR, and lead by your dad, too!"

"Are you serious?"

"Well, I think he technically was only in charge of Torrent Company, but still. That was _the _elite unit. Every single clone trooper _dreamed_ of being a part of it."

Luke gave him a funny look. "How would you know?"

Answering, _I was dreaming it, too, until we got our Lieutenant,_ would not be the best idea in the galaxy. On the other hand, it was kind of hard to fudge the truth on this one. But, he could try.

"I was in the 49th Defense Corps. We were a mixed group. Even a few of the clones there sometimes wanted to join. A couple of them got offers for a transfer there, but they decided to stay instead."

"Why's that?"

He cursed his runaway mouth and cast about for a good answer. "Well…I guess it depended on the person. Most of them had never been stationed anywhere else, and it was the only place they felt comfortable. And the 49th was pretty elite, too, only without being practically stalked by the holonews. I…didn't try to understand clones."

So, the boy would probably one day have to know that some clones had deserted and were now part of the Rebellion. So he'd then know their faces and realize he was a clone, too. So he was probably digging his own grave at this point. So what? It did fool the kid, and he was then able to change the topic.

"I've heard you're a great pilot."

He shrugged modestly. Vertigo wondered if he was really Skywalker's son. "I guess I sort of am. I mean, my whole life I've been flying land speeders and wanting to become a pilot after going to the Academy—I guess I won't be doing that anytime soon. But I always felt that I was meant for something more than just working on a farm for the rest of my life, you know?"

"Sort of."

They started at a sound from the still-bickering Wookie and smuggler. It appeared the hairier man was attempting to drag his partner in crime onto the dance floor. Despite loud, vulgar protests from said partner, they were soon galomping around the room in a clumsy waltz.

When they both quit laughing, Luke continued, "So as I was saying, I wanted to run away. I'd been thinking about it for years, I even tried it once, it's just that I never stayed away. I came back. But I do think that if everything that has happened, hadn't happened, I would've left for good."

"And where would you have gone?"

"I would've figured something out. But I am glad I'm here instead. I like this."

Vertigo chuckled at his naivety. "You do realize that every day isn't going to be a party, right?"

"I know that! You know what I did before I came here?" He leaned in close as if telling a huge secret. "I saved Princess Leia from Darth Vader."

Now, Vertigo knew he was not privy to all the knowledge of the Rebellion, but he was also not completely in the dark. That is why his stomach turned slightly at the mention of Vader himself. Still he managed to fake amazement and make small talk before excusing himself and running out of the mess.

He did as he always did when upset or elated or confused or afraid; he climbed. He ran out of the crumbling ziggurat at its base and scaled the wall as quickly as possible, trying to get away from the inexplicable nausea he felt. When he was high enough to feel he had left the urge to be sick behind, he stopped and rested against the monument's rough stones.

What was it about the boy that had disturbed him? Perhaps his sudden switch, from a stranger dressing in a Skywalker suit to a facsimile of the man himself, had perturbed him. Or his casual mention of Vader and lack of knowledge about his father's true profession, true fate. Or maybe he just couldn't shake the memory of that night, that terrible, terrible night, when they'd been lucky enough to be on Coruscant, if you could call that luck. When they had sat around in a daze, each man wondering how, how could the Jedi be traitors, how could Swiftwater and Myk of all people be plotting against them?

When they had watched the news as Skywalker himself led the attack on the Temple.

Yes, that was definitely the thing that set him off.

Skywalker did, indeed, have something of his father in him, if Swiftwater's characterization of him was correct. He was impulsive, reckless, and something of a braggart, if only a tad. He looked a lot like Anakin. And if he had considered, for a time, joining the Imperial Academy, then perhaps the certainty of whose side he was on did not exist. If his loyalties were in question, then there was only one thing Vertigo could see him as being: another Darth Vader just waiting to be born.

He had destroyed the _Death Star_, saved Princess Leia, and captured the admiration and hope of the entire Rebel Alliance. Perhaps those who still believed in the Force thought he was the real Chosen One.

Luke Skywalker may have been the Rebel's "last hope". But he was far from Vertigo's new hope.

* * *

One year and five months later the supposed war hero that was the younger Skywalker ran into one Vincent Heights as he transferred ships at Echo Base. It was not the second time they had bumped into one another, nor would it be the last.

It was, however, the second time they talked beyond a hello. Beforehand Vertigo had been so sick to his stomach at the thought of another Vader that he hadn't been able to look at the man out of the corner of his eyes.

And even then, he could only get out a few sentences about how cold it was before he excused himself and, feeling more ridiculous with every breath, emptied his lunch into the refresher.


	7. In the Beginning

God, it's been a while since I've thought about this!

Well, just a few months-ish ago, I got a review on "WHOH", and it reminded me that this exists! And I want to finish this at some point! So I dashed off this chapter this afternoon. It's just okay, I think, but, meh. Sorry I've been AWOL for so long! I'll try to give you guys something good for your patience!

Warnings for this chapter: female clones. If that ain't your cup of tea, sorry, amigo. (But if it is your cup of tea, BLUEBIRD'S BACK!)

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Later, when the dust has settled, people will turn to one another and ask, quietly, "Where were you when the clones stormed the Temple? Where were you when you found out the Emperor wasn't doing it for us? Where, where, why?" They'll trade tales like war stories, like they were all survivors of a great and terrible siege, and maybe they all were. But it wasn't the sort of war you see every day; it was over something no one could see or touch or feel. It was a war of ideals, and its battlefields would be every kitchen and bedroom and poker night and dinner table, every city hall and every childhood watering hole, everywhere people gathered to share themselves. Maybe they'll all survive, and maybe it won't be a war so much as a mental coup. Who knows? Not Rys.

Besides, the dust hasn't settled, it's just been kicked up, and someday when she can she'll tell this story, to people who only fought this shadow war, and not the real ones she'd been in, and this is how it goes:

She was on a planet called Raiz, on the edge of the two Rims, sitting down to dinner with her squad brothers, kicking back with a cup of caf in the mess at the only base on the rock, and she only heard because Terra, bless his silly soul, had insisted on listening to the news through his bucket. "I want to see what's going on on Coruscant," he said, and they all chuckled indulgently while he went through the satellite stations until he picked up the right station. They were just explaining, something about an attack on the Temple, and that caught all their attention, and they heard it like that, before everyone else, even the base commander, and between one sentence and the next the rumors were flooding the mess, and that was that.

Well, she's still on Raiz, but she's not in the mess or her barracks, she's doing a perimeter walk with some shiny and they're walking through the nearest city. It's their curfew, the citizens', that is, and she usually lets a few people lagging behind off easy, but tonight everything's too tense for that. The shiny goes left, she goes right, and then there's a figure in armor coming towards her, and she knows that walk. It's hers, mirrored, only not hers, and suddenly she's running because seriously, what the frak?

"Blue?"

"Rys." It's Bluebird for sure. Rys can't make out her sister clearly in this light, but she knows her by sight and sound and smell, and it's Bluebird. Her armor looks different, like she's halfway through some new mods or something, and she isn't walking quite like she used to, but—hell, it's still her sister, no matter what's going on. "It's good to see you."

"You too—but weren't you stationed on Corrie?" she asks. "How—"

It hits her, like a drumstick hits a drum, like a shock to the system. Bluebird is the last person she'd expect this from, but it makes too much sense. The mods, the flash of red paint on her armor in the moonlight when Bluebird only ever put a navy bird and orange-yellow decals on her armor, there's no other explanation, and she looks guilty about it, too. "You went AWOL."

Bluebird nods firmly.

Rys sighs. She should be upset, most likely. Her sister went AWOL, betrayed the GAR, but—well, the Jedi being evil? That's something that doesn't make much sense to Rys. It probably makes less to Bluebird. And if the army isn't fighting by your ideals, find a new one, right? Right. It's not a choice she'd ever make herself. Bluebird would, though. So really, she's just a bit resigned.

"Why?" she asks, because there's got to be a good reason and it's one she wants to hear.

Bluebird looks over one shoulder, checking for something—"It's past curfew and my partner went the other way." "I know that."—then returns to Rys. There's something very CO-like about her. All that time as Zach's lieutenant paid off, maybe, or by making that decision, to leave, to run, she changed somehow, or something. "You heard about the attack on the Temple?"

Rys nods. "Something about that being in response to a coup or something, right?"

"It wasn't. I don't know what rationale the Emperor has, but it's wrong. Maybe the Council did something—that doesn't justify killing everyone—"

"The Council was indoctrinating everyone, if they did something then it makes perfect sense to get rid of their followers—"

"I was there, Rys!"

That doesn't make any sense at all, and Rys says so. "The 49th isn't big enough for that kind of attack, not unless you got a lot of new recruits."

Bluebird shook her head. "The 501st is."

"So Zach signed off on your transfer request beforehand?"

"Not two hours earlier." She looks off into the past, one hand tightening into a fist. Bluebird told Rys about this, about their fighting and their arguing until she couldn't even work with him anymore and filled out the transfer request, half out of spite and half out of desperation. Things have been bad between those two for a long time. Rys was considering beating Zach up the next time they saw each other, just for Bluebird. She doesn't know if she'll get the chance, but it'll be a nice fantasy until she does get it. Before Rys can ask what being with the 501st while they apparently stormed the Temple has to do with anything, Bluebird stops thinking about him and cuts her off. "I was there. None of those people in there had anything to do with anything, whatever the Emperor's rationale is. They killed everyone—the old people, the Padawans, even the kids. I don't want to be part of an army that can kill kids because of what sort of education they'd been getting.

"So. I've gone AWOL. I'm going to look for Swiftwater—don't start, I know that woman better than you and if anyone escaped it's her. I'm going to do something, I don't know what, but I don't think this is the end of it. Palpatine declared himself an Emperor, after all. I'm going to do something about this whole thing somehow. But I'm leaving now, before things are settled and it becomes impossible. Are you with me?"

Rys doesn't need anyone to tell her this is a moment she'll look back on later in life, this is something important. It's written all over Bluebird's ill-lit face.

She grins. "We're going to get Vhon'buir on the way, right?"

Bluebird stops looking so grim and smiles back, going from the CO before a desperate fight to the mischievous hatchmate she's always known. "Wouldn't dream of doing it any other way."

Well, that settles that, then. "Lemme get the boys. They'll never forgive me if I raise hell without them."

And they go their separate ways, and Rys doesn't know yet that she'll tell this story to anyone, but there is one thing she's certain of, and that's this:

This is just the beginning.


End file.
